Birthday gifts
by planet p
Summary: AU; a first meeting.


**Birthday gifts** by planet p

**Disclaimer** I don't own _Stargate: Universe_ or any of its characters.

* * *

_1998_

She was the twelve-year-old in the dolphin-patterned dress with the red ribbon tied around her middle under what was taking its _sweet_ time to become her bust, matching blue shoes, and a white ribbon in her hair. She was twelve, but she felt much more like she was four again, amongst all of the adults and 'academics' milling in the hall.

Before she'd arrived at the university with her aunt, she'd been given the choice of a white or red ribbon in her hair, but it had been clear her aunt would have none other than the white. She'd kept the red, just in case of any last minute indecision, by tucking it away secretly into the tiny purse that she could carry in her hand which was to be her only companion.

Now, as she stagnated in her hard seat for what looked to be more dull minutes on end, she took out the red ribbon and busied herself with the task of tying it in a knot around her wrist, topped off by a nice little bow.

Spying a programme lying on a seat beside her -- vacant, of course -- she borrowed it for a moment to peruse the schedule of what she was sure would be exciting activities. She glimpsed names -- many preceded by the title of doctor -- but none of which she recognised, and began to wonder why her aunt, who was minding her, had brought her to such an event of this type: it was surely not for _her_ own enjoyment!

Had her aunt an interest in one of the speakers, or in one of the members of the attending audience? An academic interest, or perhaps a romantic one? she wondered.

Her eyes widened when she noticed she was being watched, and she quickly returned the programme to its former owner, the unoccupied chair.

She let her breath out in a sigh. How dreary all of this was, and how tedious it was beginning to become! She was bored near to tears, yet she could do nothing about it; she couldn't make a scene, and she _wouldn't_.

Instead, she scootched to the edge of her chair, and leaned over toward the rows of chairs in front of her, first looking left, then right, at the other attendees, who, in any case, appeared to be quite sparse, save for the small, white paper reservation notices sitting at the seats as though they themselves were responsible for keeping the chairs for those whose names were printed upon their paper.

She gave up and sat back again; her stomach hadn't liked being pressed on when she'd leant forward like that.

She began to practise the poem she'd had to learn for school, but just quietly, in her mind. It would be soon now that she was to recite it, and she wanted to be _absolutely certain_ that there'd be no slip ups on her part.

A sudden sound behind her interrupted her internal recital, and she turned to glance behind her at the perpetrator of the interruption and noted the papers and books and other things that had been joined, now, by their owner on the floor.

It was bound to be more exciting by far than merely sitting and languishing until her aunt's return, she decided quickly, and, with that, she stood. A helping hand was not a discouraged hand, she reminded herself as she made her way over to the mess and stopped, briefly, and bent down to pick up a paper which had found its way into one of the aisles between the chairs. "I think this is yours," she said promptly, to the person knelt on the floor -- it was clearly a man -- and held the paper out in front of her.

"Yes... ah... would you mind not touching anything, actually," the man told her in what she decided was both a Scottish accent -- as in, from _Scotland_ -- and a considerable amount of irritation.

Her eyes widened. Mind not touching it! "I wasn't hurting it!" she protested, and mentally swallowed. Oh, oh dear... would raising her voice to an adult be construed as harmful to the family's image? Well, what of it! Was she not to defend herself, then? Was she to take whatever was flung at her, unceremoniously or ceremoniously?

No, she decided, she was starting an _argument_!

"Well, I don't think I care in the least bit as to where you're from!" she declared. "I, sir, am not the one in the wrong here! You see, I was merely-"

The man shook his head, frowning. "What? Here, just... just hand that to me... there's a good lass."

Chloe's eyes shot open wide in indignation. "I am a person, thank you!" she bellowed.

"Right, well, now that that's over, the paper?"

Chloe pulled back her hand and swiftly hid both it, and the piece of paper, behind her back. "I don't think I will, sir, give it back. I think I'll hold onto it until such time as an apology has been-"

The man got to his feet, and Chloe remembered that she was just a twelve-year-old, and, as an unfortunate consequence, slightly less in the height department than the man.

"That's enough of that, I'd say!" he declared. "Hand it over!"

Chloe narrowed her eyes. _Or what?_ she felt like saying, but that _would_ be construed as inviting trouble. "I can see you're angry," she began.

The man frowned. "Angry? I'm not angry. But, make no mistake, lass, you're starting to try my patience."

She stomped her foot, angry now herself. "Stop calling me that!" she grit. "I am not a 'lass,' I am a _girl_!"

"You would, of course, care to define the difference?" he asked.

The redness left Chloe's face in a rush, and then, just as suddenly, returned. She was about to open her mouth to respond, when she noticed that it had gone all... kind of... tired. Slowly, her arm feeling far too limp, she returned her arm from behind her back and extended the paper. Well, it couldn't exactly be called her fault that she hadn't known what a lass was, could it! "I think I'll just go back to my chair now," she droned, staring at the floor. She was too embarrassed to look at the man, and amazed that her throat had let her say anything at all.

She started to turn on the spot, shuffling her shoes on the floor, as she did, and her eyes slowly lifted to land on the chairs she'd been minding and found that -- they had been taken! By her aunt! And a man.

She spun back around. "Ah, man from Scotland, do you think I would be able to help you with the rest of your things?" she blabbed. "With picking them up, I mean?" she added. The other man was going to be sitting _with_ them! She forced her chin up and her eyes to meet his.

He sighed, and tossed his head. "Oh, go on."

She dropped to her knees quickly and began gathering papers, pretending not to have noticed her aunt. After a while, she looked up to pass the papers she'd collected over to the man. "Do you know who that man is?" she asked quietly, looking over her shoulder quickly in her aunt's direction.

"No."

Chloe huffed. "That's my aunt," she told him. "She _made_ me come!" She rolled her eyes. "Are you a doctor, too?"

"Something along the lines," the man agreed.

"I'm Chloe."

The man frowned. "Nicholas," he finally answered.

Chloe grinned. "Like Nicholas Nickelby."

Nicholas shook his head slowly: he didn't know who that was. "Nickelby?"

"Charles Dickens," Chloe explained, her eyes going wider. Wow, she'd never met an adult who'd admitted to not knowing who Charles Dickens was before.

Nicholas tossed his head. "See, there's this sort of... thing between the Scottish and the English."

"An argument thing?" Chloe asked.

"Yes, much like that."

"What about?"

"A lot of things."

"Would you totally hate an English person even if you'd never met them?"

He tilted his head. "Depends who they are."

Chloe gasped. "I totally hate someone, too, but I can't tell you who, plus, I have met them before." She smiled. "But I won't tell you, so no magic, and no hypnotism. I've heard it's power is in the mind, i.e. you don't believe, it won't work -- well, I don't believe."

"I'm not a magician," Nicholas told her, sceptically.

"Magic is real," Chloe told him in a low voice. "If you believe in it. Peter believed in it -- and it worked!"

"Another character?"

Chloe's eyes got big. "Peter Pan!" she said, as though she couldn't believe anyone in the whole world could not know who Peter Pan was.

Nicholas nodded. "Right, not exactly my field."

"My father reads me Peter Pan," Chloe admitted. "He's quite excellent at reading things. I have to learn a poem for school. I think I've forgotten the third verse. It's fairly bad." She sighed. "Heck, but tell me what your field is!" she added, giggling. Oops, she'd said an unbecoming word. She hoped he didn't tell her aunt.

"It's complicated."

Chloe let her breath out, picking up one of the papers still on the floor. "Wow! I can't wait 'til I'm grown up: I can say to everyone, when they ask me something, 'It's complicated, honey!' It's going to be _perfect_!" She blushed. "I was just being sarcastic," she admitted. "Do you hate Americans?" she asked, as the thought came to her. "Do you think we sound funny? Am I annoying you?"

Nicholas sighed heavily. "One doesn't hate another merely because of their language, or their manner of speech."

"But, I mean, we have to be realistic, right?" Chloe interjected. "And loads of people hate other people just because they're different. The boy I hate, it's because he's mean, not because he talks strangely or anything." She passed the paper over. "Are you making a talk today?"

"I hope to be, yes," Nicholas replied.

"I'll be sure and listen out for you," Chloe told him, "as long as I haven't accidentally fallen asleep..."

Nicholas crossed his fingers.

Chloe laughed. "I'll try to stay awake," she said.

* * *

The man with her aunt was named Battersby. Well, in any case, that was what Chloe had decided to call him. She hadn't been introduced, and he didn't seem to care to know who she was either; apparently, she'd been discussed and then overlooked already beforehand, back when she'd been off flirting with the foreign company, or something like that. (Her aunt could be snipey about these things, and especially about people from other places.)

She fanned her face with her hand and tried not to listen in to her aunt and Battersby's conversation; if they were talking about 'foreigners' she didn't want to have anything to do with it.

She hoped there'd be refreshments later on in the event, or at the end, or something. She was thirsty. She picked at the red ribbon she'd tied around her wrist and waited for it to be Nicholas's turn to speak.

She didn't have a clue what they were talking about, either way, but at least she'd be able to listen to someone she knew when Nicholas came on, plus, she'd find out what his very secret, very complicated field was.

She listened to the current speaker for a while, then went back to picking at her ribbon for a while. She'd have asked her aunt to borrow the programme, but her attention appeared to be held rapt by Battersby's comments on the speaker, and, occasionally she'd even stop to actually listen to the speaker themselves.

She frowned at the ribbon on her wrist. Oh, great! She'd picked at it too hard and the bow had come undone. She spent a couple of minutes fixing the bow, and still, even after that, it wasn't Nicholas's turn to speak.

She wondered if maybe he'd been asked to leave, or if he was too shy. She should have recited her poem for school to him to show him that he didn't have to be frightened... well, if she wasn't, because she was a _twelve-year-old_. Plus, she wouldn't laugh at him, even if the others did.

She mentally recited her poem a few more times, then tried to think of at least a few exciting things to tell her dad she'd done (it wouldn't matter that they'd be fibs, her dad would only want to hear that she'd been happy, and had had fun).

It was when she was halfway through trying to decide whether Fib No. 5 sounded credible or not, when Nicholas came on, and she forgot all about the fib when she heard his voice over the speakers. Damn, she'd even missed his introduction! (Well, she just wouldn't tell him _that_ part, she decided.)

As she was trying to follow what Nicholas was talking about, her aunt and Battersby started chatting again, and she had to try very hard not to shush them. Still, she should have been listening to Nicholas and not her aunt and her annoying friend.

* * *

By the time the last speaker was through and done, she had fallen asleep, and her aunt had to shake her awake; no sign of Battersby. Chloe thought that they'd stay for refreshments after that, but her aunt said that they were leaving, and Chloe couldn't see Nicholas anywhere.

She at least wanted to be able to say 'goodbye.'

Walking with her aunt, she spotted Battersby waiting by the door -- Oh, wasn't that just fine! -- and turned her head quickly to look through the crowd again. She recognised some of the other speakers, but none of them were Nicholas. She could hear her aunt's voice vaguely asking for her to stop dawdling, then her aunt began tugging on her hand.

She had the strong urge to pull her hand away from her aunt's then, but she resisted it. Strained familial relations would not be good for her family's image, either. She let her aunt lead her toward the door.

Then, she felt the breeze from outside and realised they'd come to the door, and... yes! She'd finally found him. She waved madly.

But he didn't see.

Her aunt shot her a strange, pointed look as they were taking the steps, and by the time they emerged on the parking lot, she was good, old silent Chloe again. She didn't even shuffle once.

(She'd have ruined her shoes on the bitumen, and they'd been a birthday gift from her mom.)


End file.
